Crooked Corridors
by Svala
Summary: England reminisces about the past: what has changed, what hasn't, and some of his fondest memories. England/Japan


**Title:** Crooked corridors  
**Disclaimer:** Hetalia. It is not mine, but they say it may be the key to world peace.  
**Warnings:** Stream of consciousness narrative, mentions of sex, though no technicalities whatsoever because I AM INCAPABLE OF WRITING SMUT.

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England wandered quietly through the cramped corridors and narrow staircases of his once-stately Victorian apartment, thinking, reminiscing. The corridor was stifling, narrow, with small halogen bulbs spotlighting the little picturesque paintings that hung on the wall at stairwells: a snapshot of Surrey, the Lake District, a taste of the sublime. London houses were dark, with few windows and dim lamps, creaking heaters and cold drafts. They were excruciatingly small. Where were the twisting, winding halls of old? The multitudinous rooms and space for a grand piano and a table ready for a spot of tea or a game of bridge?

He was lucky enough. He was living in one of the few old mansions that were still homes. These once-impressive affairs were still kept only for the rich and the wealthy. Few could afford them, yet even so, they were split into multiple apartments. For sale, the sign would say, luxury refurbished Victorian-styled apartments in Belgravia, Knightsbridge, South Kensington. Even so, this house was isolated; walls were built between the rooms, walls were built between the halls. A kitchen added here, a sink, and modern electricity, power for a lift thumping, thumping up the floors while the gears turned. As his Empire shrank, so his house became smaller, more cramped, each of the six floors now just two rooms and a half as people split off, left, his funds collapsing. At least the wallpaper was still the same…

But the broken lights were yet to be fixed on in the memorials around Buckingham Palace.

The glory days were over, the golden age of empire finished, and yet, here, at his doorstep was the world. London was the world. The bustle of Piccadilly Circus, Chinatown, Camden, Westminster, echoing in his ears. The smells of Sunday roast mixed with coffee and Ceylon tea, soy sauce, Belgian chocolates and Italian cuisine…

What did he miss the most?

Sometimes he thought it was the treasure of the new world, India's spices, China's silk. The thrill of conquest, people at your heel – obeying every order which was at your leisure to dispose. He had his family, now his equals: America, Canada, the kidnapped child Hong Kong. They had been there for him, with him, yet he controlled them; the sun never set on his empire, but then perhaps you could say it never rose, either…

And that's where _he_ came in. Japan, with his soft voice, telling him in genteel language, that the sun rose on _his_ horizon, this horizon that panned out before him when visiting on the far eastern shore. Proud, dark eyes shining as they watched it rise in the hills, the arch of a torii shrine behind them, and the vivid crimson of falling leaves in autumn enveloping them, framing the sight.

'It rises here, and sets elsewhere.' he had said, taking England's hand.

_'This is where it begins.'_

He had stayed for a while, but returned time after time, again and again. The long journey across the world almost a torture. Diplomatic visits, one after another, to absorb the sights, the beauty, the pure exotic flavour of the east, unmarred by a colonial hand. Never mind that it was what he did – the beauty, the regal pomp of Japan was almost equal to his own. He could not lift that hand against it. This was an exotic power that matched his, if not surpassed it and left him in awe: The women were beautiful, their swanlike necks arching from the folds of their kimono, hair intricately piled in ornate hairstyles. They would incline their head, bowing to him, dancing for him, making music that haunted him on his journeys back. Nature seemed to go to extremes: white snow, cherry blossoms, blood-red leaves, and scorching summers.

Japan himself was proud, polite and serious, but for all that unmistakably erotic, with pale ceramic skin, slender limbs, deft fingers, but most of all, those eyes. The eyes of a conqueror, full of ambition, driven determination and yet unmistakable softness, even when hooded with desire. Eyes of one who understood poetry, who would write, speak and draw like a true artisan, the flick of the brush, the curve of his hand, the tilt of his head.

The nights were long after the sea journey, and Japan was ever the gracious host, tending to him, talking to him, staying with him night after night, glad to see him come. He did not seem to sleep. He remembered: nights at the onsen, after a feast, slightly tipsy on sake. It was his hand that Japan would take, and pulling him through corridors of his own, edged by paper screens, high ceilings with light filtering through the windows, they would rest. Silhouettes, shadows dancing in the candlelight, a double futon and the curling smoke of incense. Soft fingers and bared flesh, a hand on his thigh and teasing words. He would bring their lips together, softly now, trail the palms of his hands against Japan's slender back, feeling each scar, each cut of the katana telling a tale of a distant war. Would that soft skin now be gnarled, melted, barely healed by his jealous child's actions? The music of the guests' party in the room next door masked a gasp, a moan, hidden by a geisha's ringing voice, and always, always, those dark eyes shone with the warmth of the flame, flickering as the temple bells tinkled quietly in the early hours of the morning.

_Ring_

_Ring_

The phone was ringing loudly, jerking him out of his reverie. The _blasted_ phone, ringing. He made his way to the study, swinging the door open with a creak and a click, as the floor moaned even at his lightest step.

'Hello?'

'Ah, England? It's me...'

'O-oh, Japan'

'Are you alright? England…?'

'I'm always alright, always…' he said, softly, 'please, go on…'

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_ The nations, not so blest as thee,  
Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall:  
While thou shalt flourish great and free,  
The dread and envy of them all._

- Rule Britannia

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Um. Yeah. First hetalia fic. I'm totally out of practice so anything constructive you want to say would be helpful. I am extremely nervous however, so say it nicely or I'll break. :'D


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